


A Box of Somethings

by self_destructive_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A teeny touch of angst, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Valentine's Challenge, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/self_destructive_detective/pseuds/self_destructive_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To love and be loved is the greatest (Valentine's) gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katey/gifts).



> This piece is for tumblr user kassna, as part of Johnlock Challenges Valentine's Day exchange!!  
> Kassna's prompt was "Chocolate with a twist - what’s the point in giving other people chocolate for festive occasions? Happy ending and no established relationship, please!”  
> Hopefully I haven't botched it too much....  
> Disclaimer: These amazing characters are the creation of our Lord and Saviour, Arthur Conan Doyle.  
> Also, I'm not really sure at what time this takes place. There's no mention of Mary or Janine, but also no mention of Reichenbach, so take this information as you will!!

Sherlock grimaced as he skulked along behind John. The supermarket was cold, boring and grey. His sharp eyes fleetingly crossed over aisle after aisle of pink boxes and cards, his pupils assaulted by endless amounts of hearts and glitter. Sherlock’s unloving mind struggled for a moment, before he came to the horrible realisation. “Valentine’s Day,” he muttered. The word fell from his lips as though taboo, covered in venom and hate.

John turned his head, ear facing towards Sherlock, but eyes still scanning for milk and bread. “Sorry Sherlock, what was that?” Sherlock raised his eyes from where they had been glaring at the ugly tiled floor of the shop. “Oh nothing, John,” he replied in his matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I was just pondering upon the fact that Valentine’s Day is easily the most useless holiday to ever exist.”

He trotted up, closer to John, so his vehement whispers would only reach the creamy pink shell of John’s ear, and not “draw attention to them”, as John so feared (although as Sherlock noted to himself, two men with faces only a hair’s breadth apart, whispering to one another and smiling was hardly inconspicuous). Sherlock began, in full flow with biting opinions and wild hand gestures. “I mean really, who wants chocolates?” He mimicked a pitchy female voice, “Oh yes, thank you dear, for this cheap pink box filled with tasteless pieces of something the nearest shop is trying to pass off as chocolate that will inevitably cause me to gain weight around my face and thighs and then you will leave me and do the exact same for some other woman! It was very thoughtful of you!” He swallowed, gulping in air for his next torrent. “And this beautiful card! This flimsy piece of paper filled with meaningless words and useless designs, it’s a lovely waste of ink and paper, thank you for going to such extreme measures on my account!” Sarcasm was so heavily layered on the words John swore he could almost hear it drip off and splat on the tiled floor. John chuckled, the happy sound escaping his lips and catching Sherlock’s full attention.

Sherlock shook his head gently as the rosebud lips moved again and John responded to his Anti-Valentines crusade. “I don’t know Sherlock, I mean I’ve had a little bit more experience in relationships than you-” Sherlock snorted. Sherlock was nearly positive that John had dated half of London’s female population, while Sherlock struggled with human interaction beyond ordering take away and insulting the idiots that seemed to be magnetically attracted to him. John smiled and continued. “I suppose it’s like the old saying ‘it’s the thought that counts.’ It’s not the fact that they spent minimal money on the lowest quality things they could find, or they went overboard and bought you a box of chocolates worth more than your kidneys, it’s the fact that they did it for you. They didn’t buy something for your best friend or your sister, they bought it for you and they choose to spend the day with you. Which is a gift in itself, really.” John turned to look at Sherlock and his mouth spread in his lovely smile, the one he reserved for tea and good food and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock felt his heart thump loud in his chest, like a big bass drum, but he responded before his affection became any clearer.

“I wouldn’t really count shop brand chocolates and cards as putting thought into it, but I suppose I see where you’re coming from…” He drifted off, the end of the sentence barely louder than a breath. John chatted away, unable to hear the gears turning and grinding in the detectives mind, ideas forming and dying in seconds, Sherlock formulating a plan for the perfect Valentine’s Day. 

* * *

Sherlock had never been in love. At least he didn't think he had been. It was the one area (well, one of the two, the solar system was still very much a grey area for him) that he had no experience or expertise in. As a child, his parents would exchange expensive Valentines gifts, like watches or diamonds or small African islands. Chaste kisses would be pressed against one another's cheeks, light as a feather, and they would then turn to their children with boxes wrapped in ribbons, dark chocolates cushioned by velvet inside, like creamy, sugary jewels. The rich smoothness was harsh on Sherlock’s throat, and he would watch Mycroft finish both of the brother’s lot without a single spot on his pressed white shirt.  
But he didn't regard any of this as love, simply courtesy, or a gesture towards normality, a desperate effort to appear like the other families. 

As Sherlock struggled down the road to adolescence, he stumbled over the hurdles of eating disorders, drug abuse and mental health problems, tripping and grazing his knees and bruising shins. Sherlock didn’t lend himself to be loved, a scarf covering his face, a mask covering his emotions. The smell of tobacco hung like a cloak, heavy on his long coat and sharp shirts, cigarettes acting as three square meals a day. Medically diagnosed with a spot of Asperger’s, and a self-diagnosed sociopath, he sat alone at school, scrawling notes and doodles of dragons on his scientifically incorrect school books. Others around him pointed and laughed, or turned away in fear, not wanting to have their every secret told, from the colour of their underwear to the gory details of their sex life.  
There was no love shown to him in these difficult years, not even seven minutes of heaven on Valentine’s Day. 

In his adult life, the only hearts he touched were unbeating and cold, found only after slicing open the flesh of a bruised chest. His gloved fingers pawed and pressed, tugging at the heart strings in a way he had never felt in his own cardiovascular canals. Deep red, the colour of love, oozed over his hands and stained uncovered skin. Sherlock ran his fingers soft and slow over the cold bodies, not wanting to miss a single detail, the slightest difference in colour, or the most minimal increase in thickness. He spent his Valentines Days with different people each year, but none of their cold, dead lips uttered a word of love. 

Sherlock’s frozen heart started to thaw a bit as he made a few friends. The new detective inspector was first, the silver topped Greg Lestrade, always happy to share a box of cigarettes or a flask of tea while standing over an amputated human leg. But there was not love. Lestrade’s eyes looked pitifully into Sherlock’s own eyes, blown wide by a 7% solution, a black hole gaping in his glasz irises, bags heavy and bruise purple beneath. Molly Hooper was the same. She venerated Sherlock, regarded him like one might a god, her full cheeks painted with a swathe of gentle pink and head bowed when she was near him, but she looked at him with a look in her eyes that Sherlock wished she would reserve for sick puppies or orphans. She would hardly ever speak, mainly because she was unable to talk to Sherlock without stuttering and tripping over the words on her tongue, but Sherlock could read her pretty face like an open book. The story was a sad one; a tale of a tall, dark prince who, after his mother's death was wasting his life, squandering his privileges and ruining his long, handsome face with self-rolled cigarettes and sterilized syringes. And Sherlock hated the painful truth of the story. 

When Sherlock was twenty nine, Mycroft decided enough was enough. Sherlock, his bothersome little brother, spent more time in hospital being treated for drug use than testing for cases. And Mycroft couldn't have that. His minor position in the British Government was in truth fairly major, and he didn't need Sherlock's gaunt face making the newspapers every other week. So Mycroft played the trump card. 

Sherlock remembers sitting in the red leather seat, glazed eyes staring at Mycroft's frowning ones across the room. The conversation was painful and heated, insults flying with precision, like arrows attacking the victim, breaking them down slowly. Then Mycroft shuffled and split the deck, the trump card appearing at the top without warning. "Imagine how upset Mother would be." The words fell from Mycroft’s thin lips with purpose and spite. Sherlock reeled on his chair, he definitely hadn't been expecting that. Mycroft sneered at the look on Sherlock’s face. It was as if he had been slapped, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and shining, brain behind the souls windows working away, having trouble trying to process the short sentence Mycroft had spat at him. 

Sherlock received weeks of treatment; his resolve was strengthened, his mind and body weakened, blood cleaned and reputation dirtied. Mycroft oversaw every second of his rehab, like an annoying fly hovering around Sherlock’s slumped shoulders. Others might see this as an act of brotherly love, Mycroft so attentive to his poor brother’s plight, but Sherlock knew Mycroft was only in it to save his own skin, not Sherlock’s. Within those white walls, Sherlock began to loath Mycroft like never before, and every thought he had of him was spiteful and venomous. Sherlock’s whole person filled with the hate towards his brother, he was a moving body of anger and distrust. The scar ran deep, still healing in Sherlock’s battered heart. Sherlock could never love his brother again, or so he was convinced.

When Sherlock met John Watson, he held no extra regard for him than any other of the idiotic humans crawling all over the planet. A small man, with a dodgy leg and a hole in his shoulder, a hideous metal crutch supporting his curved stature. Sky blue eyes were bright but tired, movements slow due to lack of sleep; he suffered from insomnia and PTSD. He was a soldier and had fought in..."Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, still focused on his experiment. The silver and gold head jerked up from where John had been staring at the grotty tiling of Bart’s second laboratory. He responded, voice soft (like melting honey, a tiny part of Sherlock’s mind noted). "I'm sorry, what?" Apart from hello, John hadn't uttered a single word to this strange man, thus his face was a perfect picture of confusion. Sherlock’s heart did a little jump, like a skip over a rope. He frowned minutely. That was new. Their conversation was short and mainly one sided and in minutes, Sherlock had a new flatmate. 

Sherlock was glad to find out that John’s interior wasn't as average as his Joe Bloggs exterior. John was happy to follow Sherlock anywhere, whether it be trotting after him at a blood spattered case site, or running after him through the pitch black maze of London's alley ways. When John was talking, Sherlock gave him full attention, his emerald-turquoise eyes locked on John’s mouth, watching his tongue caressing the words as they dropped from his lips, mouth quirking at the corners when he blessed the world with his sunshine smile. He always had his gun lodged in the small of his back, and compliments stored beneath his tongue, to be uttered when Sherlock was just being Sherlock. "Fantastic". "Brilliant". "Extraordinary". The words were tattooed on Sherlock’s melting heart in John’s neat handwriting, and Sherlock was sure this was finally it. Love. 

But it wasn't allowed. Each weekend, Sherlock watched the well groomed bachelor wander out the door, telling tales of Sarah or Anne or Gloria or Joanna, and promises of returning with dinner for Sherlock. Sometimes he would return with dinner and a woman. And sometimes he wouldn't return. 

Valentine’s Day was the worst. 221B smelled like a perfumery, minuscule beads of aftershave floating in the light moats cast by the sun streaming through the windows; a stray match would bring the flat down like a bundle of straw. With a tie wrapped around his neck and a ribbon wrapped around the present, John would saunter through the flat towards the door. Before the door shut, he would swivel in the heels of his well-polished Oxfords. He would recite his usual lines. "Sherlock, please eat something. I'll text you later okay?" Sherlock would respond with a grunt or a glare, and John would pirouette away. Sherlock could hear John wishing Mrs Hudson a Happy Valentine’s Day. He could hear the heavy, black door of 221B close, knocker askew. He could hear his heart fall from behind his lungs and crash at the base of his body, lonely and lustful. 

When Irene Adler swirled onto the scene, all bare skin and red lips, Sherlock thought that maybe he could forget John, and give his heart to this Dominatrix. But the further Sherlock thought he was falling for her, the more he realised he was using her. When her crimson lips brushed against his cheek, Sherlock was so hopeful. Hopeful that John had seen exactly what had happened and that he would get jealous, so jealous that he would push her away and place his own lips over the mark on Sherlock’s stained cheek, wiping it away so Sherlock would remember only him. When Sherlock felt the Woman’s dainty wrist, her heart thrumming quickly beneath her warm skin, Sherlock so wished that his heart would do the same for her, and not John. So he could finally love, and be loved in return.

* * *

The weeks running up to Valentine’s Day this year had been busy. London was an angry mess of murders, kidnappings and manslaughter. Sherlock loved it. It meant he spent days on end careering down empty streets, jumping down ladders into pitch black basements and flying up stairs, Belstaff coat swirling behind him, like raven’s wings, which brushed gently against John. The days were spent on foot, and the nights were spent rejoicing in dark corners of small restaurants, careful not to jostle their bruised ribs or banged knees too much while they laughed.  
Sherlock loved the cases, but he also loved that with each case, they drew closer to a Valentine’s Day where John would be without a date. And that wish came true.

Sherlock would have John to himself on the holiday of love, and he would tell John how he felt. And he hoped, hoped, hoped that something good would come out of it. If not… Sherlock preferred not to think of that.


	2. Part 2: John

John woke with a groan on Valentine's morning. It was the first year since returning from the army that he didn't have a date. The first year he didn't have Sarah or Anne or Gloria or Joanna to distract him. He would have to spend all day with the great Sherlock Holmes, which was a pill that could be taken two ways.  
On one hand John got to spend this, the day of love, with the one person he loved. When he looked back over his résumé of lovers, he knew he had loved before but none like Sherlock. Love with Sherlock was so much different, all-encompassing and affecting every part of him. When he looked at his hands, he wished so much that they were holding Sherlock's pale spidery fingers, cradling them like the precious things they are. When he got dressed in the morning, swaddling himself in jumpers and button ups, he wished it would be Sherlock undressing him that night, opening each button slowly and with care, before ripping away the wrapping of this John shaped present. When John sat in silence, reading or drinking tea, he could hear his heart beat like a drum in the distance. Sherlock would pass through the room, silk gown fluttering and dark hair falling over light eyes. John’s heart would speed up, banging loud and strong and he so wished Sherlock would hear it so this pretense could be over, and he would know that John loved him with every screed of energy and fiber of his body. 

But that was the problem. His feelings couldn't be known. John feared the reaction. A blank face, not understanding the words "I love you.” Or cold eyes and a crooked sneer, laughing at John’s human weakness. Or hate. Hate for being so stupid, so boring to fall in love and on top of that, pure idiotic to fall for a man with next to no sexuality and no interest in humans unless they were dead on a table. John couldn't lose Sherlock. He was his best friend, his whole world, their relationship was John’s reason for getting out of bed every day. But on this day he didn't want to get out of bed. He sighed into his pillow, face buried in the downy white. He flexed his fingers and rubbed his eyes, dusting away the drowsy cobwebs of sleep. He pushed out his legs from where they were curled, fetal-style. He kicked away the duvet, and heard something fall to the floor with a clatter. Funny, John mused, he hadn't left anything on his bed last night.  
He kept his room tidy, unlike the pigsty that was Sherlock’s boudoir; draped in dark trousers and shirts, discarded experiments covering the floors like booby traps, the planks of wood stained purple with something John definitely didn't want to step on. Scratching his head, John rose from the bed, old springs squeaking like a broken accordion, and sheets moving softly beneath him. As he circled the bed, John stretched his arms high above his head, tired muscles and bones creaking in protest. He yawned as he lifted the duvet from the floor, chucking it over his bed. He blinked, confused, staring at what the duvet had uncovered. A heart shaped box… of chocolates.  
Two things happened simultaneously. Old Nirvana lyrics drifted through his head, Kurt Cobain crooning in his memories. And on top of that, he could here Sherlock saying, in his matter-of-fact tone of voice, “I mean really, who wants chocolates?”  
John didn't know how to react. What if they weren't from Sherlock? Who were they from, then? He glanced to see his windows still full intact, not broken in by some creepy admirer. They definitely hadn't been there last night… What if they were from Sherlock? John gulped. What did this mean? Did it mean that… no, no. He couldn't get his hopes up, only to watch them be burned and cast away like a cigarette. He reached down, hands shaking slightly. John wasn't sure if he was tired or nervous, or both. He turned the box over, and lift the gold emblazoned lid. What appeared to be a box of chocolates was in reality not that at all.

Where the plastic sheeting inside dipped down, like valleys beneath hills, there was not chocolate but small pieces of paper, folded to be no bigger than a stamp. There were about twenty of these wells, each filled by tiny notes. John reached for the first one, and unfolded the paper. Once opened, the page was seen to be decorated by umpteen creases, and Sherlock long, scrawling handwriting. John read in silence, pulling open note after note. They were love letters, describing how gorgeous John was, how clever John was, how important John was, how loved John was. He could feel himself turning beetroot, every millimeter of his skin blushing in the knowledge that Sherlock, the man who did not love, loved him wholeheartedly. The final note was shorter than the others, with only a few sentences in Sherlock’s spidery letters.  
“John, you are fantastic. Brilliant. Extraordinary.  
I know you weren't expecting a Valentine’s present, but if you wish to give one in return, please grant me a kiss.”  
John covered his smiling face with his hands, sighing happily, trying not to downright squeal with happiness. He gave himself a moment to calm down, before grabbing his navy dressing gown from the back of his door, and shuffling downstairs. 

From the door of the sitting room, John could see Sherlock sitting, like a marble statue. As he drew closer, he could see nervous beads of perspiration hanging at the nape of his neck, the crystals of liquid slowly falling towards his maroon silk gown. At the sound of bare feet on the tatty rug, Sherlock turned his head. John’s heart nearly stopped as he registered the worry in Sherlock’s eyes, so nervous and unsure. Sherlock’s eyes weren't supposed to look like that, ever.  
Sherlock opened his mouth, his full bottom lip quivering. Before he could speak, John quickly filled the space between them and sealed his mouth over whatever shaking sentence Sherlock was going to struggle through. Sherlock’s lips stopped quivering, went completely still, before melting into Johns like syrup. Gentle noises and hurried breaths passed between them and soft gasps as Sherlock pulled his soldier into the seat with him, lips still joined. The kisses were hot and fast, tongues writhing against one another in the dark caverns of one another’s mouths. Slowly, gradually the kisses got slower, lips meeting for milliseconds at a time, feather soft. With his hands twined in the unruly bush of Sherlock’s bed hair, John looked around the sitting room. The deep red curtains were still drawn, the room illuminated by a hundred and one candles, like stars in the dim room. On the coffee table, twenty chocolates sat stacked on a white china plate. Beside it seemed to be a schedule for the day, neatly typed and printed in black ink, decorated with roses. John chuckled, and smiled, pearly teeth catching the light from the candles. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock slim shoulders and squeezed, mouth pressed into the dark curls, his whispers caressing Sherlock's ear. “Sherlock, I love you so much.” He could feel Sherlock’s grin against his neck, his smiling lips pressing repeatedly against tanned skin. John giggled. “I have to say Sherlock, I’m surprised there wasn't a real heart involved in your Valentines tricks." Sherlock chuckled into John’s neck and prayed he wouldn't open the fridge anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kassna, if you're reading this I really hope you liked this fic!!  
> Everyone else, I hope you enjoyed it too! Please leave comments or constructive criticism, it means the world to me.  
> Thank you very much -bows-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] A Box of Somethings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233948) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




End file.
